The Bra Story

In the far reaches of my consciousness, I knew that one day their arrival would be inevitable. Every woman in my life possessed them. My mother. My sister. My grandma. Like all those who came before me, I was certain they would one day appear for me too. I didn't know what they meant, and I couldn't reason with a logical explanation as to why they were coming. I was afraid. All I knew was that I wouldn't be able to escape the fate of their arrival. This is the tale of the time I got boobs. This is the Bra Story.

It happened in the sixth grade. I had been nervously monitoring the area for months, after instinctively sensing that my childhood was nearing it's demise. Each time I looked in the mirror, I was relieved to see that all was still right in the world. Until one day, it happened. Day after day, I witnessed myself mutating into an abstract version of my former self. To my horror, I was becoming a woman, and there was nothing I could do about it.

When my mutation reached a considerable point of no return, my mother decided to take me bra shopping. I protested the idea, but had little say in the matter. Despite my physical growth, I still harbored the rights of a child when it came to most of the decision making in my life.The boobs did nothing in providing leverage towards my personal power. I hated them already.

The bra would be purchased from Sears. I spent the entire trip there simultaneously rolling my eyes and exhaling loudly at the ground. As we entered the department store, my mother flagged down an employee, inquiring the whereabouts of the section for Women's undergarments. I didn't handle it well.

This is what she asked:

This is what I heard:

The emphasis on my eye rolling and exhaling began to grow progressively by the minute. As we approached the Women's Section, I began adding an over dramatic grunt to my cocktail of emotions. Like a mentally detached patient from a psychiatric facility, I slithered behind my mother as she strolled through the aisles. Without warning, she plucked a bra from off a rack and spoke:

"What about this one-"

Before she could finish her sentence, my madness entered a new level.

"SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..." I violently hissed.

"Don't be silly." She giggled. "Hmm... we should get someone to measure you."

My eyes grew wide.

"Excuse me!" She called out to a nearby sales associate.

"MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!" I sneered.

The sales lady approached us. My mother continued:

"Hi! I'm looking for a bra for my daughter. It's her first time. Would it be possible for you to take her measurements?"

A warm smile stretched across the sale lady's face.

This is what she did:

This is what I saw:

The lady guided me into a small change room.

"Please lift your shirt," she said.

I stood there in horror, nauseously frozen in my place.

"C'mon dear." She repeated.

LIFT MY SHIRT?! DID THE FREAKING SIGN ON THE BUILDING READ "SEARS" OR "SPRING BREAK MADNESS?!" I was quite appalled by her request. Since the arrival of my boobs, no one had seen them but me. A recent prior incident involving my older sister had temporarily scarred my fragile psyche.

I did not lift my shirt for the sales lady. After five straight minutes of silent protesting, she surrendered.

"Just let me know if you need me." She said, and walked away.

My mother was not impressed, and began running low on patience. She promised to buy me Sailor Moon cards, if I just let the sales lady measure me. I sneered at her ability to poke at my weakness, and sheepishly agreed to her terms, but added that I would no longer want the lady's assistance after the measuring took place. As if trying to avoid scaring off a timid chipmunk, my mother nodded slowly and gently called the lady back into the change room.

After the measurements were taken, it was now time to select a bra. In order to indicate to my mother which bra I was interested in trying on, I devised a form of Morse-code to communicate with her so I wouldn't have to attract attention from the other shoppers through the use of my voice.

The Morse-code went as follows:

My mother would point to a bra, and I would slap my thigh once or twice to indicate whether I was interested in trying it on, or not.

The coarse of puberty was not only colonizing my body, but my sanity as well.

We began our hunt. My mother picked up a bra hanging on a nearby rack.

"What about this one?" My mother suggested.

Frustrated with her inability to follow my set of simple rules, I responded with a shrill, "SHHHHHHH!!!!! POINTING ONLY!!!"

My mother rolled her eyes. She put the bra back on the rack and proceeded to point at it in silence. I slapped my thigh once to indicate disinterest.

She pointed at another. I slapped my thigh again.

After a series of miss-communicated thigh slaps, and a bewildered "Is everything ok over here?" from the sales lady -a few bras were selected.

We returned to the change room, and I proceeded to try them on. Each time I tried a bra, I would put my shirt back on and open the door to show her. My mother grew progressively frustrated with me. Releasing an exhale, she finally broke her silence:

"Change is O.K." She said.

I stared at her. She continued:

"You're growing. People are always growing. I'm still growing! You'll never stop growing. This is life."

I stared some more.

"You can't stay a child forever. It's not a bad thing. Being a child is wonderful, but growing is very wonderful, too. One day, you'll see."

I broke my silence with a quiet, "O.K.," and reentered the change room.

I reemerged with a bra in my hand. "I think I like this one," I said.

"O.K." My mom responded with a smile, and we made our way to the cashier.


In life, change is constant and inevitable. The resistance to change breeds anxiety. Change manifests the opportunity to experience new things and to generate valuable wisdom for our cranial archives. It is important to embrace our unique experiences of growth in all stages of life. Otherwise, one day, you might be slapping your thigh in regret, wishing you had stopped to enjoy your moments just a little more.

Have a nice day.

xo Mel